


Some Kinda Asshole Rumpus

by Crave



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Post SBURB, Recreational Drug Use, Stridercest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-29 09:24:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crave/pseuds/Crave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which John fucks up the ectobiology and Dirk ends up being raised by himself. Shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Your name is Dirk Strider and you need to order more shitty swords for your fort. The great thing about shitty swords is that they make even shittier forts that require bulk orders of shitty swords to keep them in order. Your living room is a death trap now, and this pleases you. You hunker down beside lil' Cal Junior. 

"Listen up, buddy," you whisper, "today's plan of attack is a full frontal assault." 

This is, in fact, the plan of attack every day because sneaky flash-stepping doesn't work when your bro flash-steps just as well (better, but that's a can of worms best left unopened - as all cans of worms are, unless you're a fisherman. Would they even put worms in cans anymore? You think a Tupperware container would be much better since you could put the lid back on and what if the aluminum hurt the worms? Although you suppose jabbing a hook through their guts would shift aluminum poisoning to the back burner and oh, right, The Plan.)

You creep forward to the tiny gap between the bejewelled hilt of one of the swords. When you ordered it the website called the design the "Ouroboros: the snake that eats itself. A symbol of immortality." But even from the blurred, webcam-quality image you could see that some combination of puffed out dragon cheeks and stubby dragon tail made it worth the $999.95 it cost to possess a sword depicting a dragon frantically sucking itself off. 

The battlefield/living room is littered with smuppets and stuffing. You take a moment to mourn your fallen comrades before resuming your search. No signs of life. A marionette twirls gracefully around as it hangs from the ceiling fan. It's wearing a "$" shirt and a chain. You give it a tiny salute. As you stare at it, one of the strings twitches and you freeze. You flash-step lil' Cal Jr. to your side and together you leap over the shitty swords and into no man's land. 

You and your bro lock arms and puppets and so begins the day's epic battle. You pivot - bringing Lil' Cal Jr. level with your chest running up the wall over your Bro's head, bringing the Katana down and he's - gone. Lil' Cal Jr. springs round in time to block the attack with his gloved hands. 

You aim for Bro's face but he flash-steps to the side and the blade slices past his ear. In the confusion Lil' Cal Jr. lets go of the blade and it swings round and jabs at your stomach. You flip backward and feel the soft body of a smuppet squashed beneath your feet. You shed a tear as its plush rump caves beneath you. 

Bro crouches low against the ground and Lil' Cal Senior crooks his fingers at you. You raise one eyebrow above the rim of your shades. Bro grins broadly and you can't help yourself smiling back. You fight mostly through Lil' Cals Junior and Senior, occasionally equipping the unbreakable Katana.  
After half an hour you cry uncle and sink down onto the carpet. He sits next to you and the two of you bro-fist before leaning back against the floor. You stare up at the revolving marionette for a minute. 

"Bro?" you ask.

"Yeah?" 

"I could definitely eat."

"Your stomach is a pit."

"So lower me down some French fries, dude, I'm starving here."

"I will be your chow salvation."

"My grub messiah."

"Your culinary wizard - just as an aside does the word 'grub' now carry weird connotations for you?" Bro asks.

"Totally. Troll biology man, it never lets up."

"Tell me about it. So what do you want food-wise?"

"We got any of those noodles left from last night?" 

"Nah we ate all of that when the girls came round."

"Christ that girl can eat! Did you hear Kanaya saying she was going out to eat out with Rose after?" you say.

"I think you meant eat Rose out," he says.

"I suspect it was both. We got anything else edible lying around?" 

"Maybe bread? I think we could stretch to toast? Or should I order something now and we can eat half and microwave the rest?"

"That last one sounds good. I need to take a shower anyway."

"One of your famous five-minute showers? I swear it's like you learned how to shower at boot camp or something." 

"I just imagine some fifty year old drill sergeant leaning over my shoulder and telling me to pick up the soap."

"That would definitely do it," he says. "Is pizza okay?"

"I am so on board with pizza: it is a hover-board of fatty goodness and I am riding it all over the place. Doing little flips and shit. Spraying tomato sauce all over the carpet. Get the cleaning ladies all up in this bitch because Dirk Strider is making wall-to-wall pizza."

"Sounds delicious. Go shower, I'll order your food."

"Thanks Bro."

"You can call me Dirk, you know?" he says.

"Yeah but it's my name." 

"You can't keep such a sweet tag all to yourself."

"You call me Junior like nine times out of ten, dude."

"Touché little man."

"I'm nineteen years old."

"You know how most people get embarrassing parents who insist their kid is going to be their baby forever?"

"I've heard about that, yeah."

"Well it's nothing like that. I just get pretty attached to nicknames."

"See you in five," you say, and then you head into the bathroom. 

You don't idolise your brother - it's kind of impossible when he has all your flaws - but you respect him. A prince of heart follows things through. Even stupid stuff like puppets and shitty swords. Your apartment resembles the home of a psychotic clown most days, which is how you both like it. 

Of all your friends, you're the only one that knows their guardian. Rose used to think she was in some kind of passive-aggressive war with her mom before her mom died. A lot of people died, in fact. Including you. Including Bro. You've been outside the game for two years and most of your relief has worn off but sometimes your Bro opens a new crate of smuppets or remixes something decent into a total piece of crap and you think 'holy shit, he's not dead.' The relief usually mixes with guilt: you were the only one with any family left at the end and that was only through luck. Luck that your Bro had his own copy of the game; luck that you made it in time to kiss him. 

You guess that, growing up, you could have resented each other for all the reasons you resented yourselves. But that never really happened. Instead you just sort of... got along. Always on the same page. Never much to argue about. He knew all your tells - when you were upset, when you were angry, when you were too tired to keep fighting (although sometimes he made you push through it and you hated him for that). 

You strip and turn the water on, splashing lukewarm water over yourself, and turn off the faucet. You plaster your skin and hair with soap and turn the water back on to rinse off. You step out of the shower and into the cleanest looking towel you can find. It's a sunny eighty degrees in Texas and you are warm and happy pretty quickly. You change into shorts and a t-shirt. When you exit the bathroom your Bro ruffles your hair although your height difference is almost nothing now. He stopped treating you like a kid when you got out of the game but the hair ruffling stuck. 

Bro fists, hair ruffling and the occasional strife are your only forms of physical contact. You don't remember ever being held by him - not even when you were a kid. The closest thing for you was the corpse smooch and that was mostly sad (except the bits that weren't sad, and you're doing an excellent job of not thinking about those. Your body is a temple. A nice one, with clean floors and lots of stained glass. One that houses no inappropriate thoughts whatsoever.)

He's ordered pizza and the two of you wait for the delivery man whilst playing Mad Snacks Yo on the XBox. Mid-way though an ollie the entire screen turns green and the camera angle swings wildly around your character's waist like a hula hoop. The two of you high five. Unexpected glitches add a touch of spice to something otherwise generic and bland. 

"I got pepperoni. That cool with you?" he asks, taking the remote control from you. MSY technically has a two-player mode but neither of you is willing to chance it. 

"It's definitely cool with me."

You play some more. Food arrives and you eat a couple of slices. You take a can of orange Faygo from your sylladex and pop it open. Syrupy orange goodness floods your mouth. 

"Dirk?" he says. You glance up at him over the Faygo. "I've got a gig in Tallahassee coming up in a couple of weeks. You can come with. Or if you and Jake want the place to yourselves-"

"We broke up," you tell him. You frown into your soda. 

"Okay." He doesn't sound surprised."What do you wanna do?"

"I'll come along, if that's cool?"

"Definitely cool. It's fifteen hours. I was gonna do it in two trips but since you're coming you can do the first few hours and I'll just see how far I can get on caffeinated drinks?" he says. 

"Sweet."

"So fucking sweet. Like sugar dipped in honey," Bro says.

"Stirred through with maple syrup."

"Topped with sprinkles."

"That's probably too sweet," you say, and he grins. 

"When's the gig?"

"Friday night, some club called 'Rayn' - spelled with an actual 'y' and everything."

"Jesus."

"But it pays well and I have been promised hot guys." 

"Expenses?"

"It's a five hundred dollar gig. It works out more profitable. Karkat offered to put us up."

"Oh sweet Jesus-" 

"I said no."

"Because you are sane."

"But I kind of did invite him along to the gig so there's that."

"I like him in small doses, just not so much if we're living in the same space. Gamzee's still there after all," you say.

"Psychopathic juggalos are pretty off-putting, I have to admit. You got classes or anything?"

"Nothing important. I have biology Thursday and Friday I think? But the professor's an alcoholic and wouldn't notice if his own hand went missing."

"That's settled then. We'll head off around eight if that's cool with you?"

"I can live with that. I have classes at eight most days."

"Okay I'll call and book us a motel room. Sorry about Jake."

"Don't worry about it. It was... awkward. I think it was more a reaction to some other stuff. He'd been dating someone who was more or less his sister and I think he just wanted to pretend that didn't happen."

"I can't even start on that can of worms," he says. Bro frowns, "Do they even put worms in cans anymore?" he asks.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dirk and Bro set sail for the magical state of Florida.

The weeks drag and on Thursday night your brother has a very loud phone call to the club's owner. When it finishes he lies back on the couch, takes off his shades, and presses his thumb and forefinger together at the bridge of his nose. You find a bottle of orange crush in your sylladex and put it on the seat next to him. Then you head out into the kitchen to examine the take-out menus. 

A while later he comes in and tosses the empty orange crush bottle in the recycling bag. He stares at you, and then at the Indian Take-Out menu. 

"What're you getting?" he asks.

"Balti and some kind of fancy-ass naan. You?"

"Dunno. Balti sounds pretty good actually."

"I am so surprised right now, you don't even know."

"Yeah, yeah, same taste buds and shit."

"I'm not saying anything, but I did already order for you."

"What if I'd changed my mind?"

"You did that once and then you ended up eating my food anyway," you say.

"True." He pauses, surveying the kitchen in its various states of uncleanness."We should probably tidy up before we leave," he says.

"The gig's still on then?" you ask. 

"Yeah, but the manager's an asshole. He's double booked us. I told him I could make it but now he's being all 'what if there's traffic?' and talking out of his ass."

"Oh man, what a douche."

"No shit."

"So we're just turning up anyway or what?"

"I got him to agree to pay for fuel either way, and he e-mailed me to confirm that he would so that's promising. Since we've already paid for the motel and he's covering the fuel we might as well go. Might get to gig. If not, we at least get a semi-free road trip out of it."

"Yeah, I was pretty on board with the whole thing anyway. Plus we don't want any vaguely threatening messages from Gamzee like we got when we didn't go up for Karkat's... not birthday, the other thing."

"Wriggling day?"

"That's the one."

"I agree. Shit was creepy. That was before Karkat dragged his juggalo ass to a doctor and they gave him enough Lithium and antipsychotics to drug a football team, though," he says.

The next day you drag your ass out of bed at 7am and shower. You dress in a blue tank top and white shorts. You pack fancier clothes for the gig, hair gel, and clean undies. Not being able to alchemize all your clothes means that you have to shop. You tend to buy more or less what you wore in the game but in different colors. 

Your bro takes this to its extreme; all his clothes are identical. His wardrobe looks like it belongs to a cartoon character: black jeans and a white shirts are everywhere. He even has multiple copies of the same belt. 

You find him sitting at the kitchen counter eating lucky charms straight out of the box in huge handfuls. You gesture for him to pass them over and he grudgingly lets them go so that you can pour yourself a bowl before he snatches them back. The two of you chew together in silence, absorbing the magic of toasty oats and multicolored marshmallows. You get up to rinse your bowl.

"What're we doing about food?" you call over your shoulder.

"Eating it."

"Ha ha. But seriously." 

"I figured we'd just pack whatever snack foods we have and buy more stuff whenever we get hungry?"

"I am always fucking hungry man."

"It only lasts a couple more years I swear."

"Jeez. I feel like you could park a bus in here and I'd digest it."

"Going down to the depot asking if they've got any more of those delicious double deckers they sold you last time?"

"Stalking the metro across Texas."

"With a spoon." He pauses to eat another handful of cereal. "I figure we'll get McDonalds somewhere along the way," he says. 

"Heard from the manager yet?" you say, sitting back in your chair.

"Not yet."

"So I'm driving till I get tired and then we're swapping, yeah?"

"That's the plan."

"Cool. 

Bro dresses and showers and the two of you load the car and then you're on the road. Lil Cals junior and senior are in their boxes in the back seat because they come to all your Bro's gigs. Bro is in charge of music.

"Oh Mickey what a pity you don't understand!" he sings over the rushing of air through the windows. The air conditioning is broken so every window has been rolled down. 

You try not to show too much enthusiasm but you can feel the smile creep across your face. The shades mean that he can't see it in your eyes. It probably looks like more of a smirk than a genuine smile, but still. He probably knows. It has occurred to you a couple of times that trying to hide your emotions from someone who is essentially just you - if older and with a considerably less varied wardrobe - is probably a waste of time. But you have a lot of time to waste now that the game is over. 

You're coasting at seventy along the freeway, the sun beats down on the hot car. Everything is dust and blue skies outside. You can feel your heart beating and the way your clothes cling to your back with sweat. 

"IT'S GUYS LIKE YOU MICKEY!" Your Bro belts out in a strong falsetto. 

You are feeling alive. You are listening to nineties pop music at full blast. You glance at Bro for a minute and then back at the road. You have a problem and your problem is this: you are happy. You have a fort made out of shitty swords in your living room for fuck's sake. This is where all good Striders go when they die. 

But you don't know how to explain this to people. As a result, you keep finding yourself in seminars on animatronics for motion picture or robotics in business and not remembering how you got there. You are in college because you want advice on building robots. It's a hobby of yours and you are a Strider: indulging weird-ass hobbies is your thing. You should probably tell Bro this, but he keeps mentioning intern jobs that are not within driving distance and you think he might be looking forward to having some space once you move out. 

But you can ignore that for another year or so. You feel bro moving his seat back. He rests his feet over the glove compartment. After a while he falls asleep. You change CD but your music taste is exactly the same. You open a packet of fruit gushers.

"Hey, hey, you, you, I don't like your girlfriend," you sing between mouthfuls.

Bro wakes up around Houston. The two of you play bullshit eye spy. Every round the aim of the game is to work out whether the person actually has seen something beginning with the letter b or if they're just fucking with you. 

"Barn?" you ask. 

"Nope."

"Burnt-out trailer?"

"Wrong again little dude."

"Brains?"

"Do you see any brains?"

"Maybe we passed a car wreck a few miles back and I didn't notice?"

"Nope."

"Barley?"

"No but way to know your breakfast cereals."

"Thanks... um... okay I call bullshit."

"You're terrible at this. No."

"What was it?"

"Brown."

"Oh man, fuck you."

"It's a thing."

"It's a color man, that's grade school level trickery."

"You're just pissed you didn't guess something as easy as brown."

After a while Bro leans back even further in his seat and opens a bottle of Sunkist. 

"Normally I wouldn't even begin to ask but what the fuck happened with Jake? You said something about Jane being his sister?"

"It's an ectobiology thing. It turns out they're related- the same way Jade and John are related. So Jake freaked out and broke up with Jane. And I'd been putting the famous Strider moves on him from the moment we met so I guess I seemed like a good choice?"

"Self-deprecating shit aside, he shouldn't have broken up with her for being his like vague sort of relative," he says.

"No?"

"No."

"Any particular reason or is incest just all shits and giggles for you?" you ask.

"No. I just... don't understand why it's a thing?"

"You have been spending way too much time with the trolls."

"I think people should be able to fuck anybody over the age of seventeen that wants to fuck them."

"I guess that's not totally idiotic logic, but what about like genetic diseases and shit?" you say.

"Everyone should just shut up about it," he says.

"This conversation has seriously derailed."

"It is plowing into the station right now."

"People running from the platforms."

"Unscheduled topics forcing their way through the windows."

"Fleeing the wreckage."

"A man holds a loaded gun to the head of the driver, leans in close to his ear and yells-" he begins.

"This is a stick up! We are the Banter Brothers and we are about to tear this shit up!" you finish.

"About to get unrelated all up in this bitch."

"Shit's about to go off topic." You both trail off for a moment, then you say, "I think I agree with you about Jake."

"Yeah?"

"I don't think he should have broken up with her in the first place." 

And that is the closest you have come to admitting your vaguely incestuous inclinations. You can't decide if that's progress or not but you doubt it. 


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which much caffeine is consumed.

You drive for a couple more hours before you decide to get lunch and swap over. You pull into a diner and fill the car. 

"You want hamburgers?" you ask.

"Sounds good," he says. The place is small but clean. You both order orange soda and cheeseburgers.

"That waiter is hot," he says. 

"Did you see that guy at the gas station on the bike?" you ask.

"Jesus, that guy could've wrestled a lion with his bare arms."

"He could tame me any time."

"Oh really?" he says. And you wish you could see his face. You think he'd probably have raised his eyebrows at that. 

"Totally." It seems weird to you that he didn't notice how hot the guy was. The little differences between you and your older self make the whole thing feel uncanny. Uncanny in the Freudian, this freaks me the fuck out, sense. If Rose is any indication, Freud would have had a field day with you. 

"I would need a second look, I think," Bro says. He doesn't like the differences either. Sometimes he will joke that he intends to become stubborn in his old age so that you can catch up. If pressured you'd say that you don't think he's kidding. (But who's pressuring you? No one. That's who.)

Your orders arrive and the two of you eat in comfortable silence for a while (there's almost no other kind of when it comes to the two of you). You pick up the last of your burger.

"So," you gesture to him with your bun, "if you get to run it, what's the set tonight?"

The two of you talk shop for a while. He's been swapping out the old mixes for some newer stuff and it's been difficult trying to decide which of the older tracks still make the cut. You're still passionately discussing whether he should move his worst song - a mash-up of MC Hammer and the Pokémon theme tune - off the list, or keep it on for the sake of notoriety when you realize that an hour has passed. The two of you head back to the car. 

This time, Bro is driving. It's your turn to take a nap. When you get closer to the venue then one of you will have to navigate, but until then you've been awake since six and driving for hours. You need sleep. 

You wake up just outside Texas (waking up as you pass a sign reading "welcome to Louisiana"). You tilt the seat back up and adjust the head rest. Your neck gives a satisfying pop as you try to get comfortable. Everything is blurry until you realize you're not wearing your shades. You feel around for them and pull them over your eyes. Everything springs into focus. You try to keep quiet about it, but the fact remains that your eyes are two orange balls of crap and need thick as fuck lenses in order to let you see. 

"How long was I sleeping?" you ask.

"About an hour?"

"Felt like longer."

"Did you have sweet dreams?"

"I'm pretty sure I punched you at one point," you say. You haven't quite got the hang of sleeping. You sleep walk a lot and you can't quite control your limbs.

"Yeah that elbow is gonna have bruises," he says, rubbing it for emphasis. 

"I'd apologize but in my dream you were this huge fuck-off spider with laser beams for eyes. I remember hitting something and being all 'that ain't no carapace' but then I had to dodge one of its legs."

"That was probably about the same time you started wailing on the glove compartment."

"Hey, that glove compartment was just looking for trouble."

"You have a weird sleeping face."

"What?"

"Your tongue sticks out and you don't close your eyes all the way. It looks like you're squinting at something," he says, miming the face at you for a second before turning back to the road. 

"Your impression doesn't work with shades," you say.

"I'd take them off, but then I wouldn't be able to see and I'd plow straight into someone's living room and we'd all die in a fiery wreck."

"Yup."

"You were thinking it would be worth it, weren't you?"

"No, I was thinking I'd seen it earlier already," you tell him.

"When did you - oh. When I was asleep?"

"It was like you were trying to paint something small and really far away."

"Maybe I was dreaming I was talented?"

"I'm pretty sure you mumbled something about evil narwhals."

"Narwhals are a force to be reckoned with."

"I don't doubt it," you say. Your stomach rumbles.

"I think there's some chocolate around there."

You poke around and sure enough you find a Hershey's bar under your seat. It melts all over your hands. You feel Bro's eyes on you as you eat but you don't call him on it. You don't call him on much these days. (You are so shit at not thinking about things.) You suck chocolate from your thumb. Bro changed CDs again. 

"I ain't no holler back girl!" Gwen Stefani sings. She is a poet of your time - if your time had been the early 2000s. 

You stop around Baton Rouge to piss and buy snacks. And because Bro is in serious need of caffeine. He drinks a large coffee and a can of Mountain Dew before you can get out of the gas station. You manage to get potato chips and Fanta and Milk Duds onto the counter alongside. The guy at the counter gives you a look as he rings through the empty Mountain Dew and coffee containers and you shrug. 

Back on the road and you take another nap. You wake up and the intense heat of the early afternoon has faded. Bro is guzzling Mountain Dew like it's premium liquor and prohibition is right around the corner. You have messages. 

ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 15:00 -- 

EB: hey dirk, you online?

EB: hello?

TT: Oh hey I was taking a nap for a while there but I'm awake now. 

EB: journey going okay?

TT: Yup. Air conditioning still up shit creek without a canoe though. It's hot as a hellhound's testicles in here. 

EB: i bet those would be pretty warm balls. 

TT: The warmest. Like two molten globes. 

TT: Love eggs like smouldering suns. 

EB: haha that is some disturbing mental imagery. 

TT: Oh come on, it's just balls. 

EB: have you heard from karkat and gamzee?

TT: Bro says they're still on for the gig. They offered to let us stay with them but we didn't take them up on it.

EB: i don't blame you. karkat's okay but the clown dude scares me.

TT: You just have a weakness for guys who hit on you. 

EB: you're one to talk.

TT: I include myself in that category. What can I say? You have one epically plush rump there my friend. 

EB: it's pretty firm i guess?

TT: The firmest. You could twist bottle caps off with those cheeks. 

EB: ass soda. yuck! 

TT: Don't knock it til you've tried it dude.

EB: okay i definitely don't want to know what you and jake get up to.

TT: Jake and I aren't really a thing anymore.

EB: oh no! i guess i really put my foot in it there, huh? my bad.

TT: I was gonna have to tell you some time. Don't sweat it. 

EB: when did it happen?

TT: A couple of weeks ago now. 

EB: and you didn't say anything until today? 

TT: Didn't really get the chance. We've been playing team fortress all month, it didn't seem like a good idea to be all 'you just take out that sniper, I need to stay here and wallow.'

EB: what happened?

TT: He kind of noticed what he was doing and decided to stop. 

EB: noticed what?

EB: oh, yeah, you said something about jane possibly being his sister? 

TT: It's more of a definitely, if you catch my drift. Better chase it, that drift moves fast. Faster than a speeding bullet. 

TT: Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's my drift, grab one now while stocks last. 

EB: that's so weird.

TT: Bro says he should have stayed with her.

EB: really? but they're related.

TT: Apparently he doesn't give a fuck.  


EB: what do you think?

TT: I don't know man, it seems pretty weird to me. But I guess I can see his point? They seemed pretty fucking happy together. Like the cool cats that got the cream. Now Jake's walking around likesomeone up-ended that cream all over his head and stole his girlfriend. 

EB: he does seem really down. though i guess that makes more sense now i know you guys broke up.

TT: He was pretty down most of the time we were actually together. Like someone had popped his balloon or taken his binky away. 

EB: i'm sorry. i guess my questions make it worse, huh?

TT: It's okay. What about you, any luck with the ladies?

EB: there's a cute girl in my math class. i think i might ask her out?

TT: She hot?

EB: yeah.

TT: Pics or it didn't happen. 

EB: she's really pretty. she's got like... really blue eyes. 

EB: no facebook profile though. 

TT: What is it with you and blue?

EB: what about you and yellow?

TT: It's orange, dude. 

TT: You know, like the sun.

EB: the sun is yellow. 

TT: I'm gonna pretend you didn't say that. 

EB: how's bro?

TT: He... looks pretty tuckered out actually. I'm thinking I should persuade him to take another break. 

TT: Talk later?

EB: sure thing. 

"You okay Bro?" you ask. 

"Yeah I'm cool I... could actually use another break."

"Works for me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having a friend read over the pesterchum section, so that should be smoothed out soon. Apologies for the lateness of the update, there were a lot of essay deadlines followed by a lot of travelling. Next chapter should be along much quicker, I'm already a few hundred words in.


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they arrive at the only club in the whole of Tallahassee.

He's still not looking great after the pit stop so you get back in the driver's seat and he curls up on the back seat and goes to sleep immediately. You turn down the volume on your Miley Cyrus CD and try not to hum along too loudly. 

You drive through Louisiana. If you had to describe it in two words you'd pick "flat" and "green." If you had to pick one word it would be "boring." The landscape has no features whatsoever, and if there are any they're mostly hidden by the trees bordering the road on all sides. After a while you start to appreciate why Bro had so much trouble staying awake. 

The road and the music and the temperature are all soothing you. You almost fall asleep near Alabama so you pull into another gas station. 

"Bro," you shake his shoulder and he bolts upright, struggling wildly against the seat belts he used to strap himself in. It's funny as fuck, but then he's suddenly holding a knife and it's a lot less funny.

"Bro," you say again, and this time when he responds with more knife flailing you grab his wrist and twist the knife out of it. With the other hand you feel for the seat belt catch and click it. He sits up against you, grabbing your shoulders.

"Dirk!" you practically yell. Third time's the charm. He relaxes against you, unclips another seatbelt, and feels around for the knife. He puts it back wherever it came from and now he's looking at you. 

You become aware that you are leaning over your older self in the cramped backseat of a Ford Mondeo in a mostly abandoned parking lot in Alabama. You lean back. Bro props himself up on his elbows. His cap is skewed and his nose pokes out under it at a weird angle. You can see all his nostril hairs. You wish you could say that was a turn-off. 

"Sorry man," Bro says. 

"No sweat, it's just karma for the elbow. Violent Strider sleep cycles are a necessary balance in the universe," you say.

"Well we did make this universe so it's technically possible." 

"Most days I hope that the only say we got in it was that we could breathe the air and eat the food."

"Can't say I disagree. Though the fact that in this version of Earth the trolls have been here all along was definitely a plus. I had no fucking clue how we were gonna explain that one."

"Excuse me sir, what are those? On your friend's head," you say, in your best Texan-cop drawl. 

"Nothing to see here officer, these are just... horns. And please ignore the length of my friend's tongue, I know it can be rather distracting," Bro says, sitting up until there's probably less than an inch of space between the two of you. 

"But what happened to his teeth?" you say, stepping back to let him out of the car. 

"It was an accident, I swear, his dentist just went a little overboard with the drill. It's completely fine now. No harm done."

"Are those claws?"

"He's in costume."

"As what? Looks like a... is that a demon, son?" 

"No, no, it's my... friend."

"Lord have mercy!" You mime drawing your gun, then drop your arms and the accent. "They'd better have some caffeine tablets in this place. Sleep is beckoning me me with her soft cushions and her purple nightgown."

"Agreed. I'll take one too - hopefully I can stay awake long enough to keep her away but sleep's such a slut. She'll take you wherever she can get you."

"I feel like every slumber party I've had has been some kind of orgy now."

"It's those footie pyjamas man. I'm telling you."

"I feel so unclean."

"You and I both know that's a lie," he says, and the pair of you enter the store. 

When you find some caffeine tablets and a dubiously branded energy drink called No-Doze you mentally high five yourself. Bro puts plasters and hand sanitizer on the counter and glances pointedly at your hand. You follow his gaze and there's a pretty decent-sized gash along one side of your finger. Must have got it from the half-asleep strife in the car. As with most things like this, you don't feel it till he points it out. Back in the car you wince as you pour hand sanitizer over your finger and stick the plaster over it. 

"Wanna change up the driving?" he asks. You flex your fingers. The pain is annoying but bearable. On the other hand, do you actually want to bear it? He's you. Are you really going to put up a tough guy front for yourself? 

"Nah, I'm good," you say. Apparently that is exactly what you are going to do. (You really do love how it's "bear" like the animal. You picture yourself stealing picnic baskets and stalking stoned Canadians through the woods for a moment before starting the engine.) 

By the time you reach tallahassee you are totally exhausted and glad you're not the one with the gig in two hours. Your cut is leaking through the plaster but they have a first aid kit and you patch yourself up with medical tape and a tube of antiseptic cream. You take a one hour power nap. 

When you wake up Bro is hyper-alert and sweating into his clean clothes. You drive him to the gig and he sits in the passenger seat fiddling with his pass, his leg twitching every now and again to no rhythm in particular. He has not. Stopped. Talking. 

"Gonna be a good gig, lil' man, I can feel it in my bones," he says. You're glad he left Lil'Cal Senior in the back in his case. You don't think you could deal with both of them.

"I haven't seen Karkat in such a long ass time," Bro continues, "that ass stretches from here to Australia by now."

"The donkey or Karkat?"

"Karkat's not an ass."

"I was referring to his well sculpted posterior."

"Of course you were. My bad. I hope Gamzee takes good care of it."

"I don't think that's how moirailleigance works."

"It doesn't?"

"No, it's one of the non-sexy ones. The one with the cuddling and the shooshpapping and the feelings jams."

"How can anyone hang out with Karkat and not want to tap that?"

"I guess if you're on enough drugs you might not see it?"

"I'm on drugs right now and I can appreciate a good ass when I see one."

"And have you?"

"Have I what?"

"Seen any particularly bootilicious persons?"

"Maybe? Well. Yes. There's me and there's - there's you - and possibly the guy who carried our suitcases? I'd give that a seven out of ten. You get a nine."

"Only nine?"

"Well yeah. I'm a ten and mine's the finished article and you've still got a little ways to go. Still room to grow those glutes."

"It's good to know the booty ages well."

"Striders don't age. They mature - like...like... like cheese. Yeah man, like cheese."

"So when I wake up reeking of sour milk and covered in mould I have my wonderful genetics to thank?"

"Don't be a dick about it dude, you're still hot enough stuff. I would totally pour you over my taco. Oh man. Don't even listen to me I have no fucking clue what I'm saying."

"Do you ever?"

"I'm you. You tell me... tell you? The English language is not designed for your everyday common or garden ectobaby."

"Agreed. There needs to be more vocabulary for 'not me but still totally me but with a baseball cap'."

"Just as much of a prick as me but smaller and wearing a vest."

"It's wife beater."

For once bro doesn't use words, just makes a kind of "ch" sound. He pauses a moment to let you feel his distain, then begins narrating the entire car jouney.

The club isn't far from the hotel but Bro is at least a little less manic by the time you arrive. Not by much, though. You start helping him set stuff up but he keeps re-positioning it and eventually you go in search of the manager. 

The guy is nearly six and a half feet of solid muscle. He immediately puts you on the defensive. He's the kind of guy who makes you wish you could still carry a sword around. You're aware intellectually that you don't want to pick a fight with this guy. But you find yourself using the parts of your brain that used to open your sylladex (still not used to the fact that these synapses do not work anymore.)

"My Bro's just arrived and he wants to know where he should put his stuff," you say.

"Who're you?" he asks. It's a totally valid question but you have to consciously stop yourself clenching your fists.

"Dirk Strider's brother."

"Oh the Texan guy with the puppet?"

"That's the one."

"I'm glad you guys are here. The guy who was supposed to be on has flu."

"I'll let my Bro know he's still on then?"

"Yeah. You're up on the stage over there," he points to the fairly low platform.

"Sweet. How long before you need us to start?"

"Half an hour, an hour tops if something's wrong with the mics or the lighting."

"That works." You don't add that in the state your brother's in the whole thing could probably be set up in about ten minutes. You're tempted to get Bro a beer on your way back to the car just to get some depressants into his system but you suspect that might be a bad idea. Instead, you help him carry stuff from the car to the stage then wander off in search of a packet of peanuts.


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a stage is set.

"WELL FUCK YOU TOO! I HOPE SOMEONE SHOVES IT UP YOUR PEA-SIZED BULGE AND SETS IT ON FIRE!" someone yells over you as you attempt to thank the barman for your change. You turn and find yourself face to face with Karkat. Well, face to back-of-the-head. 

"Karkat?", you say. 

He whips round, ready to yell at you, but after a moment he recognises your face (what he can see of your face anyway under your shades.) He yells anyway, of course. 

"DIRK THIS FUCKMUNCH TOOK MY CHAIR!" 

"You should give him back his chair," you say to the frankly startled-looking guy who's sitting in it. The guy absconds and Karkat settles into the chair and takes a sip of beer. 

"Where's Gamzee at?" you say. 

"He's in the ablution- I mean bathroom."

"I got my troll lingo down, dude, you say whatever you want."

"I was trying to be culturally sensitive you ignorant fuck."

"So when did you get here?"

"Ten minutes ago. You didn't call." 

"Bro is high off his tits on - I'm thinking Adderall - so I've had my hands full. Uh, Adderall is-"

"I know what Adderall is. Try living with Gamzee for more than ten minutes without turning into a medical encyclopaedia. I dare you. Fuckmunch is on pills for his pills."

"I hear ya. Bro is setting up his stuff but he'll come say hi after the gig. How're the other trolls?"

"Your knowledge of Kanaya is probably better than mine. Terezi's okay. Don't tell her I told you this but her relationship with Gamzee is a big red clusterfuck now that he's taking his meds."

"I thought her hatred of him was the kind that nothing could surpass."

"It's hard to hate him when he's himself again."

"How? We were fighting him too in the end."

"Do you know what Sopor does?"

"Gets you high?"

"More like it fucks your thinkpan sideways with a spoon until you can't feel anything unless you're shovelling more sopor down your protein chute. But if you want to simplify to the point of ignorance then yeah, it gets you high."

"Oh. So it's like meth?"

"If that ass-backwards analogy is what it takes to get it into your thick human skull then yes."

"So you've forgiven him because he was having the come-down of the century?"

"Get this through your squishy mammalian ball sack: it wasn't a come-down, it was a re-write. Gamzee on Sopor and Gamzee not on Sopor are two completely different people."

"So what about now? There's no Sopor on Earth."

"Yeah I know I-"

"Dirk my main motherfucker."

"Hey Gamzee," you say, trying not to look like you've been talking about him.

"Sit your giant ass down Gamzee, it hurts just looking at you from this angle. Actually fuck that. It hurts at any angle," Karkat says. 

"Sure thing palebro," says Gamzee.

He curls up into a chair (most of the chairs around Karkat were evacuated when it became clear that he wasn't going to get any quieter). Most of Gamzee's height is in his legs so that when he sits down he looks almost Dirk's height. Gamzee seems unsure of what to do with his feet now that he's not standing on them, he tries tucking them under the chair but they don't fit. You watch him attempt to thread them between Karkat's feet under the table. 

"How've ya been?" you ask Gamzee. He waits until he's tucked his legs away before he answers. 

"I been taking my medicinal shit real fucking timely is what. So you don't need to be getting all nervous-feeling on my best friend. I don't got the need to be remembering all the time, because KK has them all safe-snuggly in his thinkpan, I just make sure to be taking them when he gives the say-so."

"You heard us talking then?" you say. 

"Hearing all sorts of things and ain't no arguing there. Your melodious Bro going to be getting his music on any time soon?"

"Dirk's Bro is fucked right out of his face right now but he's apparently going to play anyway," says Karkat.

"That's about it," you say. 

"Gonna lay down some righteous rhythms," Gamzee grins. It stretches the paint across his lips and you can see where it's smudged onto his teeth. He looks like an evil clown grandmother. 

"I guess, yeah?" you say. 

"Motherfucking beautiful."

"I am pretty sure one of the tracks is just an 8-bit rendition of My Heart Will Go On," you tell him. 

"It is all up to being the bitchiest of tits," Gamzee continues undeterred. 

"Sweet baby Jegus is this my life?" Karkat says. He takes another sip of his beer. 

"You know it," you tell him. You push your hair back: there's enough gel in it at your hair practically squeaks against your fingers. 

"When are you going back?" Karkat asks.

"Tomorrow - wow I really don't want to think about that."

"You could be all staying with us?" says Gamzee. 

"I'll let you know tomorrow," you tell him, "thanks Gamz." And he grins his evil old-lady grin and you hope to god you're up to driving tomorrow. 

You finish your beer and head backstage to check on your Bro. Nothing can make him lose his cool but you can see it wearing thin in the face of anticipation and drugs. 

"Kar and Gamz are here," you tell him, "they said we can stay with them tomorrow if we're too fucked to drive."

He nods absently as he checks some of his disks. His cap dips dangerously forward as his head tilts down. You wait for him to reply but he's too distracted. 

"Bro," you say again, walking over to him, "you think you're gonna be up to driving tomorrow?" 

"Huh?" he looks at you now and you reach out, pushing the baseball cap back onto his head by the brim. 

"Sorry lil' dude I was busy," he says. 

"It's cool man. Tomorrow? Good to drive?"

"I dunno man. I think I'm gonna be buzzed til maybe lunchtime but then I'm gonna crash bigtime."

"I'll tell Gamz and Karkat we'll be crashing at theirs tomorrow."

"Thanks kiddo."

"Do I drop ten years when you're high or somethin'?"

"Just habit I guess?"

"Right. Need a hand?" you say. You're still standing pretty close to him. There was sweat on the brim of the cap and your fingers still feel damp with it. You make a mental note to make sure he drinks enough. 

"Nah but c'mere a second."

"How much more here can I get dude?" you ask, gesturing at him.

But you step in so close to him that the space between you wouldn't even fit a penny. He tilts his head a little to the side and gives you this really intense look. Then he steals your drink. 

"Son of a bitch!" you say, reaching for it. He flashsteps away and downs the whole thing in furious gulps. 

"God I needed that," Bro says. 

"Fuck you."

"You couldn't afford me."

"Then you're overpriced." 

"Let me just get myself some aloe for that sick burn."

You turn to leave and find yourself face to face with the manager. You know you should apologize for practically walking into him but you are having a hard enough time being unarmed around him. Unlike a certain someone, you didn't decide to bring any of your weapons to Florida. And for the first time since Bro cut you with his you wonder why he did. But you think that's a conversation left until after the manager is gone and Bro is no longer high off his tits. (Not that he has any. But if he did you wonder whether Bro would have huge hefty tits or something smaller? You suspect palm-able but practical would be his preference, if boobs were his thing. Which they aren't. And-)

"How long will you be?" the manager asks. You glance at Bro but he's unpacking lil' Cal.

"He's basically done," you tell him. "Just getting the puppet out of the trunk."

"Five minutes and then the strobe lights come on," says the manager. You look at Bro again but he's not listening. Looks like you are Strider spokesman of the evening. 

"Five minutes is fine," you say. 

The manager leaves and you unpack lil' Cal Jr and drape him around your shoulders. 

"Bro," you say, and when he doesn't turn you tap his shoulder. "Bro we gotta get onstage. You need a hand?"

"If you're asking if I'm gonna need you onstage so I can put some distance between me and that guy who just came in then yeah."

"That's the manager."

"Fuck. You're telling me we've got to get money out of that dude? We are fucked."

"In the ass."

"No lube."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I had essays and I managed to get this done between one thing and another but I have an exam tomorrow and a presentation. Expect updates to get regular around June.


	6. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys do their thing and it's pretty awesome.

Post-game mechanics are weird. You still have a sylladex but you can't show people. (Every time you leave your apartment you can almost feel the synapses disconnecting. You've been working on getting around it but you've had no luck so far. People wonder why you're always forgetting things: your keys, your phone. They tell you that you'd forget your own head if it wasn't attached and you remember, even though you try not to, that it there was a time where it wasn't. Luckily it was a pretty short time.) All the technology is gone. It makes setting up for the gig more time consuming than you'd like but you work with it. 

The crowd isn't huge, but it's still pretty big. The advantage, you guess, of being the only nightclub in Florida. Most of them are underage. The clues are in the crowd which, for starters, has divided into cliques. There's a crowd of sweaty-looking Goths hanging out near the speakers and some jock types and a lot of people in band shirts and bandanas that have pushed their way to the front. You wonder what they call themselves. More of them than everyone else. Whatever they are, they don't have them in Texas. 

"Listen up everyone cause were doing this," Bro says. A weird, tinny sound makes its way through the crowd. 

"Were making this happen," a few of them shout back. SBAHJ fans are a constant in most rooms these days, and you're glad Dave has settled into this world. 

The tinny noises resolve themselves into auto-tuned opera. You recognize it but you couldn't name it. Bro mixes Snoop Lion into it. He has lil' Cal senior draped over his shoulders, headphones to one ear. He misses his cue and you see Lil' Cal senior turn to you and point to the mic. 

You wait four beats before you come in. You wonder if Bro is too far gone to remember the lyrics, or if he's throwing you a bone: giving you something to do onstage so you stop moping around. 

"I write my rhymes so fresh, super deluxe, so you're gonna need good credit, gonna need to wear that tux. Shine your shoes, Kool-Aid dude. Comb your hair cos here's the flare, that's gonna light the room..." and so on. 

Bro joins in for the chorus, which is like a tongue twister on fast-forward, because he knows you sometimes fuck that one up. By the end, the crowd are warm and toasty. (Like fresh bread, you think. You watch them bobbing up and down, like baguettes in a strong wind. The point where they start to smell faintly of croissants and butter is the point at which you realize you are hungry again. Oh well, what else is new?)

Gamzee is dancing vigorously, disregarding the music entirely in favor of an energy and enthusiasm this track lacks entirely. The next one isn't great for dancing either and as Bro starts up the next song - a slowed down auto tuned version of 'Yellow Submarine' - you nudge him and glance over at Gamzee who is attempting some kind of alien Macarena. Other people are giving him a wide berth. Bro nods at you. He drops the bass. 

The atmosphere turns electric. You and lil' Cal Junior meander about the stage. What you and Bro have dubbed the Hardcore Submarine Fandango draws to a close and suddenly people in the crowd have glow sticks. The tempo picks up again as Bro pulls an electric violin cover of The Teddy Bears' Picnic out of his ass and raps over it himself because it's a new one and you still can't get your mouth around it (Like a new cock that you've yet to adjust your throat to. Making you splutter a little, spit flying everywhere. The whole thing wet and messy and - no. Do not get a boner on stage. Think non-sexy thoughts, think non-sexy thoughts.)

He plays your favorite track next, tricked-out bass line and a delicious sample of something that you've never managed to get him to tell you. 

"So here's the switch, plug this in got to pick up that pitch pack it up bitch pick up your game. Ain't no stopping, ain't staying ain't sitting around," he raps.

"Buy your flesh by the pound, buy your thirty third round and you bury your head in the ground. Easy pony. Don't get lonely," you finish. 

"Get even. Get a good shot in, not in the mood for this shit. Not in the majors to quit. In and out, beautiful baby - precious, don't pout," he says. And the words are soft, quiet behind the mic but loud through the speakers. The place hushes a little. 

"Don't shout," he starts up again. "Honey's got clout. She got game."

"She got to make a name. For herself. Gonna pick up those pieces, gonna fix her own damned shelf-"

"If she got time. Take this dime. Take twenty, easy sugar , take plenty. Don't get empty."

"Get even, get your teeth in, not in the mood for this..." he pauses, "Love. Take your answers from anything but above. Scratch your scriptures in the dirt. Don't get hurt. Get even." 

Then he throws in a series of advertising jingles from your childhood. He turns to you and gives you the thumbs up, as Tony the tiger enthuses about the power of Frosties. If you weren't already caught up in bizarre sexual fascination for him, you think this would be the tipping point. (You really need to stop having all these incestuous thoughts but-)

"They're great!" Tony the Tiger purrs. 

He ends up caving to pressure from the crowd and running the MC Hammer/Pokémon number. Gamzee brings out his best and most collateral damage inducing moves until Karkat goes over - initially to prevent property damage - but gets roped into a dance. He doesn't fight it all that much. 

You are a ball of tightly wound energy. Bro is what would happen if someone took that energy and gave it Adderall. It's glorious to watch. You're gonna crash big time tomorrow. You can feel the floor humming under your feet, the sweat is everywhere on your skin. Particularly, for some reason, your ass. You're so going commando next time you have a gig somewhere this humid. Fucking Florida. 

Karkat has dropped the self conscious shuffle-dancing he had going on and is now actively dancing with Gamzee. Troll dancing looks dangerous. Claws barely missing each other's faces, every step looks like it would crack bone if it was even a little misplaced. You think about how much you'd have to trust someone to let them do that and you can see why moirallegance is a romantic quadrant. The only person you'd trust to do that would be yourself. Bro, then yourself actually since he's a more experienced version of you.

The next song is a remix of Beethoven and the Simpson's theme tune. It's full of unexpected pauses that hold just long enough to make people uncomfortable. You watch him work. There's no words in this song but it requires a lot of focus. He tried to teach it to you once but you didn't get very far. (Still, if you worried about him being better at shit than you, you'd get way too caught up in it. Which you have. But still.)

You and Lil' Cal Junior attempt the Single Ladies dance to this one - with mixed results. Sweat drips down your legs and soaks into your socks. You need to shower forever. You hum under your breath, trying not to let the mic pick it up. 

And so it goes. The warm weight of the lights, Gamzee's manic dancing, Bro fucked out of his mind but still keeping good rhythm. You dance and sometimes you rap and you have a sweaty ass. When it's over you bring Karkat and Gamzee with you to collect your money. He takes one look at the murder clown and his friend and grudgingly hands over the money. Bro has a passion for impulse buying at the best of times so you pocket it for now. 

"Where are dumping your shit?" Karkat asks. 

"Dunno," you say, "don't wanna leave it in the car. Maybe the motel?"

"My miracle bro is offering his hive, he's just being all begrudging about it."

"I'm using tact, Gamzee. Something you can't seem to wrap your pea-sized thinkpan around."

"We'd appreciate it, thank you. You guys are pretty rad. Also, Bro and I are gonna wanna burn off some adrenalin. There anywhere good for that round here?"

"You've just played at the only decent nightclub in Tallahassee, but there's usually some kind of party going on this time of night that you can turn up at," Karkat tells you. 

"Thanks dude. You guys wanna come with?"

Karkat says no exactly as Gamzee says yes. They have some kind of brief conversation using only their eyes. 

"We'll take you somewhere good, brother. Can't have you being all gatecrashing on any shady motherfuckers, it ain't hospitable," Gamzee says.

"But we're leaving way before you energetic fucksticks. Do you even have a concept of downtime?" says Karkat.

"Not exactly. Bro's gonna be up for the next 10 hours thanks to his brief visit to the mysterious illegal-consumption-of-pharmaceuticals fairy," you say, "but even then I've seen him go days without sitting down."

"Well go fetch his hyperactive ass and pack up. Gamzee and I are gonna be at the bar."

"Wanna lift? It'll be a tight squeeze but it seems polite to offer."

"I hope that's not a human insult about my weight," Karkat says. 

"Only if you want it to be," you smirk slightly. 

"My palebro is expressing his agreement, he just ain't getting round to it all at once," Gamzee says with one of his soft smiles. 

"Okay then," you say. "Meet you back here in ten." You slip through the crowd and find Bro crouched over his records, filing them away for easy access. 

"Hey Lil' Bro," he says, without looking up. 

"Sweet jams tonight," you say.

"They were a good crowd, let us mess around a little without getting all annoyed about it."

"Florida man, who knew?"

"Any Plans for tonight?" he asks. 

"We're dropping our stuff at Karkat's and then he and Gamzee are gonna take us to a house party."

"Man I keep forgetting you're not legal yet."

"I'm legal where it counts," you say, wiggling your eyebrows even though he can't see them through your glasses. 

You help him disassemble all the equipment and stuff it into the car. You're both breathing hard and sweating worse but neither of you is really tired. You've got so much excess energy you feel kind of sick with it. Bro is worse. He looks like he does when he's about to win a living room strife: like something lethal and full of focus. (You've got to stop this fancy bullshit thinking. It doesn't suit you. Sometimes when you're tired or angry you use the word y'all without any irony. He's not some ethereal fuckass he's just an older version of you with a more consistent dress code.)

Gamzee and Karkat's place is the most ordered chaos you have ever encountered. Objects are arranged into piles by type. There are no sofas or chairs, only mounds identical items. Glancing into the kitchen you can see that even the dirty dishes are divided into separate piles of plates, cups, and cutlery. They have a small pile of neglected-looking cushions over in one corner. You take a note of them for sleeping tomorrow and they reaffirm your resolve to sleep in the motel for tonight. 

You empty the car and Karkat and Gamzee help you find somewhere to put it. Karkat seems anxious to see you arranging your stuff neatly in a corner without separating everything out. You guess it must be the Troll version of neatness. 

"So where's the party at?" Bro asks.


	7. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which chicken makes an appearance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anything this update is shorter than the last, but the next chapter should follow pretty fast.

You find yourselves strolling through a set of open doors on a suburban street. Outside the house there are palm trees and a carefully manicured lawn. Inside underage teens are consuming alcohol on every surface. Someone is being allowed to play grunge at low volume. The lyrics are indistinct and depressing.

"Is this a party?" Bro asks, because he has the lowest inhibitions right now. 

"This is where we're getting drunk. We'll find somewhere less pan-meltingly deplorable later," says Karkat. 

He guides you to where the contents of someone's liquor cabinet are spread across a sticky table. There are small plastic cups with footballs on them that look like they were stolen from a kid's birthday party. Your options are a 2 quart bottle of cider that has the word "appleicious" on the label, something that looks like a bottle of water but turns out to be vodka, and one beer that Bro quickly snatches before you can get it. 

You re-evaluate how drunk you were planning on getting and pour yourself half a cup of neat vodka. Bro's face is totally blank and you're not sure what he thinks of your choice but he doesn't say anything so you shrug and sip. 

Bro picks the cider when his beer is gone and drinks it like water. Karkat drinks too, although alcohol doesn't have as much of an effect on Trolls. Gamzee stares longingly at the Faygo on the cabinet, looks down at Karkat. Karkat frowns a little and Gamzee moves over to sit beside you.

Then you sprawl across the nearest flat surface - though Karkat seems kind of anxious about doing so. He gives you and Bro cautious looks as you settle. He seems satisfied that you're not about to... something. 

"So Karkat, what-?" you say.

"Less talking, more drinking. The faster you drink the sooner we can leave."

Karkat drinks with a kind of brutal determination that you're forced to respect even when you know it's not really affecting him as much. You drink in short gulps, like cough medicine, and you try not to let the taste show on your face. 

You finish one disgusting drink, and another, and then Karkat pronounces you ready for what's next. 

The next place you turn up at is another mile across identical suburban landscapes. Cookie cutter houses like these weird you out. Why do these people need so much space? You have no idea what they're doing with all those rooms.

"Bro," you say.

"Yeah?"

"What the fuck is even with gardens man?"

"I know dude."

"What are they even for?" you ask, glaring pointedly at the grass in question.

"Wait?" Karkat says, "You pail-fondlers don't know what this shit's for either?"

"Not a fucking clue," you say.

"Nah KK," Gamzee says, leaning over you so Karkat can hear, "we covered this shit. The humans and the breathing, remember? They breathe all this bitchtits oxygen stuff made by the plants, so they have plants all over their hives. We worked it out, remember? When we were watching them."

Sometimes you forget that they made your world. 

"You'd know," Bro says, because he doesn't forget anything. And he grins at Gamzee. A huge, dopey grin like the ones Gamzee wears all the time. You didn't even know your Bro's face could do that. The combination of Ritalin and alcohol makes him unpredictable. He never really treated you like a child. But there were rules, and he's not following them. Still, not much you can do. It'll wear off tomorrow.

"This is it," Karkat says. This place is better than the last one. The music's better at least. You can feel the bass through your feet and it's a track you'd actually been thinking of sampling for a while. 

You're in the wrong mood for drinking and you shouldn't be as drunk as you are so the three of you crowd around the speakers on the makeshift dance floor. When you glance at bro he always seems to be somewhere different, and you can't tell if it's the lights of if he's flash-stepping. You miss Lil' Cal Junior. Lil' Cal is the man.

Bro is dancing in the general direction of some poser guy. The guy's wearing a hat and silk shirt with jeans. You focus on Karkat and Gamzee - who are doing a slightly less lethal version of their dance from earlier. Gamzee catches you watching and grins. 

"Hey dogg, looking like this motherfucker wants to learn our dance," he says. 

Karkat retreats from Gamzee's claws and straightens up.

"Slurry-spiller wouldn't know a dance if it bit him on the shame globes," Karkat says.

"Brother you've got to be giving a motherfucker a chance."

It looks like fighting, but Troll dancing isn't fighting. It's practically suicidal. You have to throw yourself at your partner and try to get your neck or your stomach level with their claws, and then they have to choose not to hurt you each time. Neither of them offers to dance with you, but they let you see how each move goes so you can practice. 

"I still say he dances like barkfiend shit," Karkat says. 

"The why don't you practice with me so I can try it?" you say.

Karkat looks mortified at the suggestion, and Gamzee's shit-eating grin falters a little. Bro pokes your shoulder. 

"I'll dance with him," Bro says. "What's the move?"

"First position through third I think?" you say.

"Fifth," Karkat grumbles. "Just stay still and don't fuck up," he tells Bro and Bro nods back. 

You set up the move. It's pretty straightforward: you run at him, duck under one arm and bring your arm level with his throat, letting your neck get near his hands as you do so.

You practice it in slow motion, acting it through and Karkat corrects you on form until he pronounces you ready.

You sprint at him, slipping under his arm like you've practiced. He stays still like he's meant to. Then you get your hands near his throat. He moves at flashstep speed and you're reeling back - clutching your head. 

"What the fuck Bro!" you yell. You glance round but he's vanished.

"I'm gonna find Dirk," you tell Karkat. He nods. 

"Motherfucker aught not to be hurting on his Bro," Gamzee says to Karkat as you turn to leave, "Maybe he needs to be getting his elixir on?"

"I think he's had enough elixir for tonight," you say. 

You check the obvious places: makeshift Bar, bathroom, garden, but you don't see him. It's not until you're in the lounge that you start to notice how much your head aches. You lean against a window frame and feel the bruise that's forming. You're doubly glad you don't have to drive tomorrow. 

"You okay?" there's a girl coming towards you. You think she's probably a freshman - she's got that earnest kind of look that reminds you of John. Blue eyes too. 

"You should probably put some ice on that," she says.

You nod and then regret it. You hiss a little. 

"Actually hold on a minute and I'll go get you some," she says. 

She disappears for a while and you're just starting to think she's wondered off by the time she comes back.

"I couldn't find ice but they had chicken nuggets in the freezer," she says. 

"That's fine," you tell her, "Thanks."

You motion with your hands and she passes the bag to you. You press it against your head and for a moment it stings more but then that trails off and the chill is a relief. 

You sit in the corner next to her defrosting chicken nuggets with your face. The girl gets out her cell phone and starts scrolling through tumblr. She pauses to reblog a Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff photoset.

"My cousin makes that," you tell her. She glances up at you. "My name's Dirk by the way."

"That wouldn't be Dirk as in Lil' Cal Senior featuring the D?" she asks. 

"I'm his brother. His younger, hotter brother. What's your name?"

"I'm Tasha," she says, and she smiles. 

"Thanks for these," you say, pointing to the chicken nuggets which are dripping onto your clothes. "I'm here with a couple of friends actually," you say, "wanna meet them?"

"Not your brother?"

"He's around," you say, "he'll probably turn up later."

When Bro gets back from wherever he's been hiding he finds you, Tasha, Karkat and Gamzee in the kitchen feasting on dubious poultry and exchanging blog URLs. 

"Hey Bro, this is Tasha," you say. She grins.

"I'm a huge fan," Tasha says, "I really wanted to go along to Rayn earlier but my friend made me come along and three-wheel with her and her boyfriend."

"Hi," Bro says, and he shakes her hand. She grins. 

"Your younger brother was telling me you've got another gig in Louisiana in a couple of weeks," she says, "maybe I'll stop by?"

"Sounds great," he says. He turns to you.

"Sorry about earlier," he says, "I guess I'm still pretty twitchy, huh?" Which is when you really start to panic.


	8. 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the night winds down anticlimactically

You're eight years old, nearly nine, and you're messing with your Bro's record collection. Messing with Bro's records carries penalties. So far your tactic for avoiding these is to not get caught. You follow the lines of text on the record sleeves with your finger so you read the words in the right order. Sometimes you get muddled. Your teacher told you once that it would get better if you practised more but you don't have enough time. Bro tells you all the answers to your homework questions so no one asks any questions.

Sometimes Bro shakes you awake before the sun goes up and you have to run laps for hours and hours. A couple of times you've run and run till you were sick on your shoes. 

He teaches you weapons too. You can put a rifle together - although he hasn't let you fire one yet. You know how to handle a knife. You know swords too. When you were little you had a wooden sword, but he moved you onto the proper sword as soon as you could hold it above your head with both hands. 

Sometimes you do Yoga. You like that one even though he makes you tidy up first so you don't hurt yourself if you fall over. You get free time but sometimes you think it's a test as well; like he's making you practice being bored. But today you are bored of being bored. 

He has a lot of records. You're lifting them out by the sleeves. And, of course, you drop one of them. And they're usually pretty sturdy. But maybe it's an old record, or maybe there's something in the carpet, because it cracks. 

You can feel Bro standing behind you.

"I'm sorry," you say, "I didn't mean it I-"

"Who taught you that word?" he says. His voice is colder than usual. 

"What word?"

"Who taught you to say sorry, Dirk? Was it your teacher?"

"Yeah, he said that if you do something wrong you should say you're sorry," you say.

"Well that's bullshit," he says. "Remember when we talked about words? About which ones are okay to say, and which ones are wrong? Sorry is one of the bad ones," he says, and his voice is scary-intense. "Sorry isn't something you feel," he tells you. "You feel happy or you feel sad, right? But you don't feel sorry, Dirk, you are sorry. And once you're sorry, you don't ever stop being sorry."

"Um, okay," you say. Mostly to please him, because you're eight and you have no idea what the fuck he's saying. 

Your punishment is no TV for a week and a half. If you're good then the half is until Tuesday, and if you're bad then it's Wednesday. 

And now at nineteen your Bro is fucked on Ritalin and cheap cider and he's one sorry son of a bitch. You eat another chicken nugget. 

The five of you head back onto the dance floor and you dance with Tasha for a while. She's terrible at dancing but that means you can be terrible too. The two of you dance a particularly uncoordinated cha-cha slide, mowing down innocent bystanders and sound systems alike. 

You show Gamzee how to do the Macarena while Karkat glares at you. 

Before Tasha goes home you give her your back-up shades, your number, and the knowledge that she will always have a place to stay in Texas. Karkat and Gamzee leave shortly after.

"You wanna go back to the motel?" you ask Bro.

"Give me some credit lil' man, I've got a few good hours in me yet."

"Where'd you wanna go?"

"You got your ID?" he says - by which he means the fake ID he got you for college. 

"Dude, who do you think I am?"

"Karkat says we played the only good one, but we can try some other club?"

"Worth a shot," you say. You ask around and someone sends you to somewhere called Jade. It's full of students. They basically ignore your ID in favor of trying to get you drunk. The buzz from earlier is fading so you don't put up much of a fight. 

"You want another?" you ask Bro.

"Nah, think I'm out for tonight," he says. You are gradually building a picture of Bro's head space and you think things might be a bit fucked in there. More fucked than usual. You can't think about this stuff without being drunk but you'd rather not think about it at all so you nurse a beer for a while before heading out onto the dance floor. The linoleum sticks to your shoes. 

Bro is crowded into a corner - there's a guy maybe a clear half-foot taller than him. Your instinct is that it's a fight. One of the guy's arms is above Bro's shoulders, keeping him in still, and the other is level with Bro's face. But as you get closer you can see that Bro is smiling and so you back off again.

There's a group of people near the speakers, most of them are laughing, a few of them have drinks in their hands. You go over to them. 

"You live here?" you ask one of them, a guy in a backwards baseball cap and a blue t-shirt. You may or may not have chosen him because he looks kind of like Lil' Cal Junior. 

"Not for much longer. Florida is shit," he tells you solemnly. 

"I wouldn't know," you say, "I'm from Texas."

"You don't say," he feigns surprise.

"You never know, I could have moved here," you say.

"No one moves here. No sane people anyway." 

"Glad I strike you as sane at least," you say.

"You here with anyone?" he asks, and you hesitate because you do not want to introduce him to your older self right now. 

"My Bro's around somewhere," you say, "but he's kind of busy right now. You?"

"I'm meant to be meeting some old friends," he says, "but they'll probably take a while getting here. You want a drink?"

"Yeah sure. I'll take the weakest thing they've got. It's been a long night but I can't afford to sober up."

"Tell me about it. Tonight is meant to be a high school reunion."

"You're way too sober for that," you tell him. "I'm getting you that drink instead. My Bro will pay."

"He okay with that?"

"I have his wallet. He won't notice."

"Well in that case, I'd love another beer," he says. He's attractive enough so you give him your best smile, the one you practice when Bro isn't around. He smiles back and you buy his beer. 

The two of you drink and talk and you flirt cautiously, and when he flirts back you get a bit more obvious. Things are going really well until his friends turn up. Then the sexual tension vanishes and he's quiet and he doesn't try to talk to you. You look around and Bro is being led off the dance floor.

"I'd better go find my brother; have a good night though," you say. He nods, and he looks like he's about to say something but then one of his friends taps him on the shoulder. You shrug. 

It doesn't take you long to find your Bro, he's waiting outside the men's room - presumably for the guy. 

"How goes it?" you ask. 

"I'm waiting for someone," he says. "I'll be back later."

"No way you're leaving me in Florida this drunk," you tell him.

"You'll be fine kid," he says. 

"No fucking way man. I have no idea what's up with you, okay, but you owe me one. Last I checked it wasn't cool to leave your kid brother alone with a psychotic clown man and his boyfriend after punching him in the goddamn head. Getting all into this freaky self-defense shit, carrying blades with you for no fucking reason. I mean, I know there's probably a reason. But it's sure as shit not a good one. And fuck, I mean why even call it self defense? You've fought actual monsters before, we both have."

"I dunno man. Fuck. Fuck!" Bro is holding the bridge of his nose under his palms. 

"Dude. You are smashed. Don't leave me here. Let's go home yeah?"

"No, no I-" he stops. "Yeah. Okay, yeah."

"Before that guy comes back."

"Right."

The two of you get into a taxi and it drops you back at the motel. You've sobered up a little but not too much. 

You like to make things happen. You don't like not knowing what to say, and normally you just say whatever you feel like. But your mind isn't making connections so much anymore. You're too tired for any of this shit. 

You find your room and both of you sit at the foot of the bed at opposite corners. The bedsprings creak. 

"Tell me what the fuck is going on," you say. Then you just sort of fall onto your back so that you don't have to look at him. You study the ceiling. 

Someone is watching television next door and you can hear canned laughter through the walls. You both listen to it for a while. When Bro eventually starts talking, his voice is steady but higher than normal. The way your voice sounds when you're trying not to let on that you're a fuckup. 

"I died," he says. 

"I was there," you say. "I'm the one that bought you back. Wasn't easy either."

"I don't think I was meant to be dead that long."

"What?"

"I ended up in this dream bubble. It was full of these monster things and, well... you know how monsters are."

You don't say anything for a minute. Then you sit up, you move slowly so he knows where are you. The whole bed creaks under you. You want to touch him. But you're pretty sure that's not a thing you do. 

"Hey," you say. You mean it to come out soft but it comes out almost angry.

"What?" 

"I saved you," you tell him.

"I know you did man but-"

"I saved your life but you didn't think maybe you should tell me this shit?"

"I-"

"Because really man, I had to kiss your rotting corpse. But you think you can't tell me about hell?"

"Why're you getting your rage on at me?"

"I'm not!" you sort of yell. 

"Then what?" he says. 

And you do something really stupid.


	9. 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we finally, hopefully, live up to our rating.

By the time he knows what's happening you've opened your sylladex and bashed him round the back of the head with the first thing that falls out. 

"Fuck you!" you spit.

You've got a half-empty bottle of orange Mountain Dew in one hand and your head thrums painfully where he hit it. You feel pretty good about that. You're still gloating when he grabs your shoulder. He strikes hard - twists you down and pushes you against the bed. He's got your arm pinned behind you like they do in cop movies. (You've always wandered about that hold. Is it so they can pin the cuffs on? But you only see one hand half the time and you don't even fancy your Bro's chances of getting hold of your other wrist now that it's under your body.)

You push up with your free hand and elbow him in the side. He grunts but doesn't let go of your arm.

"If I let you go, you gonna hit me again? Huh little brother?" he all but purrs. And you're sober and freaked out and kind of turned on but you shake your head.

You get your other hand back and you bring them both up to defend yourself but he just sits back up, rubbing the back of his neck. You watch him warily for a moment before slowly rolling back down beside him. 

"What'd they do to you," you say.

"Torture mostly. Sometimes they'd tell me all the shitty things I'd done while I was alive. They told me you were dead. The longer it went on before you came back, the more I started to believe that one. I think they had me nearly convinced for a while."

You didn't really want to be this strung out when you eventually got round to confronting your pseudo-incestuous and inherently masturbatory fantasies. But at least when you pull him down beside you he seems to be on the same page. 

Your shades clack against each other. You push yours up so you can get to his mouth more easily. He tastes like lemons and liquor and you have no idea where to put your hands so you've got them curled against your chest between you like you're about to push him off. 

(Why is it that in movies people always seem to know what to do with their hands? Like right now, you should probably be in the moment or whatever since you're not sure you're going to get to be in this moment again. And instead you are trying to decide if you want to put your hands on his face like Kirsten Dunst in the 2002 adaptation of Spider Man or if you'd have better luck getting to his junk if they were further down his body like your man DiCaprio in Titanic.)

While you're thinking a bunch of useless crap Bro is kissing the shit out of you. He's got one hand on your side and one hand in your hair and he's pretty much going to town on your face. It's fucking awesome. His skin is hot and he's making these breathy noises that make you feel kind of dizzy but in a good way. 

You're glad he's not looking at your face so much as eating it because you're guessing you look thoroughly fucked already. The hand on your side moves down in a vaguely ass-ish direction and you bite his lip hard. You're shaking now and you can hear the weird squishy noises he makes when he breathes. 

You're trying to stay in the moment but it's already gone, really, by the time he pulls back and you're squinting at his swollen bottom lip and he's watching your face too. 

"Might not be a great idea to do this when I'm still high," he says. 

"Okay," you say. You're equal parts relieved and disappointed. "As The Cage would say, let's put the bunny back in the box."

"You should sleep. I'm gonna hang around till the pills wear out. I'll try not to go all Edward Cullen on your ass."

"Dirk," you say, and you can see him tensing the way he would for a punch. It is imperative that you don't fuck this up. 

He's getting up - still wearing his shades - and you don't know how it happens but all of a sudden you're holding them in your hand and even though he's all blurry up close you can tell his eyes are rimmed red.

Somehow he ends up pinned under you. Huh, when you don't think about it your hands know what they should be doing all on their own. He doesn't punch you in the head this time. He just lets out this really long breath and fucking writhes under you. 

"You sure you don't wanna do this Bro?" you say. 

"I just said it wasn't a good idea. Didn't say anything about not wanting to do it. Come on man, when have you ever wanted something I don't want?" 

You've got one knee either side of his hip and you grind down a little. He grabs your ass with both hands - which is hella awesome - and you grin at him even though he probably can't tell because you are both painfully farsighted. You feel like a god. To be fair, you kind of are. 

Next door someone turns up the sound of the television, presumably because this bed creaks like a motherfucker. You sink your fingers into his hair and the gel and spray mean that it actually crunches when you tug at it. He makes the best noises. You feel almost bad when you kiss him because it muffles them. 

But his mouth still tastes bitter and delicious. You can feel the sharp points of his teeth under your tongue. Your hands move down his body and when they get to his belt he hisses into your mouth and you can't help laughing a little at that. 

"Come on," he says, and you take off his belt and pull down his stupid oversized jeans and even more dumb tighty whities and stare at his dick for a moment. It looks exactly like yours - not that there's a lot of variation to be had in dicks, but still. It's kind of weird to you how hot that is.

He takes off his shirt and then yours and you have to climb off him so that you can get properly naked. You nearly trip over with one leg still in your boxers. You're embarrassed but that comes with the territory. Besides, it's probably his turn to laugh at you. 

"A little eager there," he says. 

"You're just that hot," you say. 

"You look like Sempai finally noticed you."

"When in fact I just really wanna suck your dick," you say. You get back on the bed and hover over him.

"Where'd you go to get a mouth like that?"

"That would be my Dirty Talk class last semester. I tried to be a good student." 

He pulls you down for more sloppy make-outs. You can feel him getting hard against your thigh. It's great but the angle is off and your arms get tired. You shift so you're lying on your side facing him. His hair is falling out of the gel in places and he looks pretty wrecked. 

"Hey can I touch your cock now?" you say. You're attempting to sound suave but you mostly sound like a loser. Still, he's in no position to complain so he goes with it - nodding at you as you bring one hand down to wrap around his cock, feeling it slide under your hand. Even with the seriously creaky bed and the trash they're playing on the TV next door you can hear the sound of skin against skin. 

"Fuck," someone is saying - probably you - and you can't really think. 

You kiss him again, and your teeth click awkwardly but you don't care too much. You miss all his noises so you bite his ear and he rewards you with something like a yelp mixed with a squeak. Fuck yes. 

"Lemme suck you," you say, pressing your mouth against the skin between his ear and his jaw.

"Whatever you want."

"Then screw this," you say, "I wanna pony."

You slide down the bed, still facing him. You have to curl your legs up to stop them falling off the bed but now you get an even better view of his prick so you don't really give a shit. You lick a trail down the shadows of his hip bones.

"You had a pony," he says.

"I meant one that was actually alive."

You've done this before - enough to know what you're doing - but you're nothing to write home about so you don't attempt anything flashy. You just sort of lean in and take as much of him as you can fit in your mouth and wrap one hand around the rest. 

He tastes of you - the way you taste when you lick your fingers - and salt. He thrusts a little into your mouth, but the angle's awkward for him so he can't do much. You can feel his fingers in your hair, messing with it. Good luck combing that son of a bitch through later. 

You don't really like anyone's hands on your balls but you get your free hand behind him and move the pad of your fingers against his taint and between the cheeks of his ass. He makes some epic sounds when you do that so you keep up the pressure. You can feel the skin smoothing out and tightening again. You spread him a little with your other fingers and press in with the tip of your index finger. Not enough to hurt, just so he can feel it. 

"Shit," Bro says. His whole body seems to be curved round you and you can feel him shaking. He's got his hands all over your skin where he can get it, clutching your shoulders and your forehead.

You can feel him getting closer. You pull back a little so you can work him properly with your fingers. Pre-come bubbles from his slit and you rub it into the glans with your tongue. The hand that's busy with his ass is making smooth circles against his skin. 

He makes these jerky, uncoordinated thrusting motions. You move your tongue harder against him, moving your hand faster and he jolts against you. He lets out a choked noise like he's coughing and comes over your lips and into your mouth as you suck the come out of his dick. You stroke him until he stops twitching and then you pull back. 

You meet his eye when you lick your lips and swallow. He hauls you up and kisses your mouth hard. Both his hands hold your jaw and you're filled with this shaking energy that makes you want to touch him everywhere. You thrust against his hip - not sure you could stop if you wanted to. 

He lets one hand go to wrap around your dick and you have to stop kissing him so that you can breathe. You're shaking, burying your face in his shoulder and feeling the slight stubble of his jaw graze your skin. His other hand stokes the back of your neck. 

"Perfect little cocksucker," he murmurs.

You make an incoherent noise.

"That's right," he says, "gonna come for me, huh?"

And, so help you, you do. 

"Such a good boy," he says. You bite his shoulder half-heartedly because that really has no right to be so hot. 

"I see someone's been taking their dirty talk classes as well," you say, as soon as you've regained the ability to speak. 

"Can't let myself be outdone, not even by me." 

"I really need a shower. I smell like booze and come," you say, attempting to get up. He brings his arms round you to hold you still.

"Both those are the shit," he says.

"C'mon lemme go."

"Wouldn't be a smart move, Kiddo," he says. "I'm postponing a minor breakdown here, you gotta gimme a minute."

"You wanna talk about it or make out some more?"

"The last one."

"Can do."


	10. 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is some moderate freaking out.

The hangover you wake up to is the worst thing to happen to your head since it was decapitated. It feels like someone has been driving a freight train through your synapses while you were asleep. You get into the bathroom and more or less fasten your mouth to the tap, drinking like you're dying. 

"Dirk?" Bro's voice comes through the wall. 

You sort of groan at him through mouthfuls of water. He comes into the bathroom and shuffles around behind you. You leave the sink to pee and he takes over the drinking-frantically-to-combat-dehydration position. 

You fell asleep before you made it to the bathroom last night and the smell of dried sweat and semen that rises off your body isn't helping your quest not to throw up. Bro looks like he wants to say something but you ignore him in favor of climbing into the shower cubicle and shivering until the water heats up. 

You take a little longer in the shower because you have to rinse your pubes twice. Bro doesn't really leave the bathroom, he takes his time cleaning his teeth and then he just sort of watches you. You aren't self-conscious but it's pretty intense and you leave the bathroom when he gets in the shower. 

You take 2 aspirin and while you're waiting for them to kick in you find some short pants and a t-shirt. You take a brush to your hair and are still failing to make any progress when Bro comes in. He's got his shades on. 

"Hey," you say. 

"Hey."

"How's your head?"

"Lemme at those painkillers."

You chuck them at him and get back to messing with your hair. You glance at his reflection in the mirror. You can see the mark on his shoulder where you bit him. That's... fucking intense is what it is. 

"Lil' Bro?"

"You still have the bruise." 

He knows the one you mean because his face flushes under his shades. You get up and stand in front of him. You liked the intimacy that came without shades, but you don't want to take one of his few remaining crutches away. 

"Gonna try to get through this without inviting a whole circus of bullshit, but don't count on it," he says. 

"Little bullshit clowns trying to cram themselves into a car made of bullshit."

"Bullshit lion tamer with his little top hat full of bullshit."

"Twiddling his little bullshit moustache. Do we actually gotta talk about this?" you say.

"It's probably not the best idea to screw your clone in a shady motel in Tallahassee and then never mention it again? Real life isn't fight club."

"There go my hopes and dreams," you say. "But don't worry, I'm not gonna go tell pa and shotgun marry you."

"Now neither of us has any hopes or dreams. I hope you're happy."

"I've been wanting to fuck you since I was fourteen. I'm happy as a pig in shit," you say. And when you say it you realize how fucking true it is. If you had the energy you'd probably be surprised by how fucked all the way to shit your life is getting.

"That's that question answered then."

"What question?"

"If you wanted it."

"Fuck yeah. You knew that already though right?"

"I think so?" he says. His voice is strange.

"Oh man you really are fucked." You tug him over to you and give him a full-on bro hug, complete with slight handshake and honest to god pats on the back. Him leaning awkwardly over you while you sit in the chair. You manage this whilst still holding onto the brush because you are that well coordinated and you know it. He smells of soap and skin. 

"If you do decide to bail on me, you cannot abandon me in fucking Florida man, what am I gonna do huh?" you say.

"You could go to Disney World?"

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

"Mostly," he says. And he stops. You wait him out until he speaks again. 

"I just fucked my... clone? My brother? I have no fucking clue how this works," he says. He leans against the back of your chair, hovering over you from behind. But he's not really touching you, and neither of you can see each other properly. It's easier that way.

"Yup," you say. Because you're not gonna deny it if he's not. 

"And I know I think the Jane and Jake thing was okay. But saying something is not the same as fucking doing it. And - God, your mouth."

"I've never had any complaints."

"Smoothest ride my cock has ever had. No teeth at all."

"Learned that trick from a troll, he had a mouth like a fucking bear trap. I wasn't letting anything that lethal near my cock without knowing if I'd get it back," you tell him. He huffs a short almost-laugh and his breath moves through your hair. It tickles. You brush it but your scalp still feels weird.

"I can tell you your study paid off."

"Good to know."

"I can't be the only one freaking out here," he says. He's leaning into the chair even more now, and it creaks slightly.

"I'm having a more contained freak out."

"Un-contain it."

You put down the hairbrush and stare at the gel. Maybe the guy on the tube, with his insanely shiny hair, has the answers. You take a deep, slow breath through your nose and let it hiss out between your lips. 

"It's just so fucking narcissistic! Jesus Christ!" you say.

"That's your focus?" He sounds genuinely surprised. It's hard to surprise someone who is basically you, and you don't think you like it.

"You have to admit it. Apparently the only person I want to fuck is me? That's not just the definition of narcissism. That's narcissus on steroids."

"Narcissus-zilla, destroying Tokyo to make mosaics of his own face from the rubble."

"I always knew I was full of myself, but now I have been like literally full of myself and it was fucking awesome, Bro. But no one is thinking 'wow that guy is so well-adjusted'. But hey, at least I have really great self-esteem? Man that's utterly fucked."

"That's what you're picking? Not 'this is highly illegal' but 'man I could stand to tone it down on the self-love?' Fuck man."

"My point exactly. And I dunno man, I'm just your clone. I'm pretty sure they don't have laws for that."

"I'm your brother, at least on paper."

"Yeah but it's paper we forged, so I am pretty sure we can un-forge it whenever we damn well please." You don't yell when you're angry, but your voice gets more intense and you can feel it happening. 

"It's not that easy," he says. 

"It's not a problem anyway. I've looked it up. So long as there's no kids, and no one rats us out - which ain't happening because we're not telling anybody - there's no evidence."

"You wanna live like that? Never telling anyone?"

"Beats the alternative."

"Which is?"

"Moving out. Fucking other people. Knowing you're fucking other people. And/or mutual celibacy and longing. Which will probably lead to more inappropriate and sexy fucking up," you tell him. The weight of him in your hands. In your mouth. His fucking hip bones. You can't see yourself forgetting that any time soon.

"So what are we gonna do?"

"It's either gonna work out or it will all go irreparably to shit. And we can deal with both of those scenarios. Things have gone irreparably to shit more times than I can count. I say we wait it out."

"You've thought about this."

"And you haven't?"

"Not really."

"Huh." You reach for the gel but Bro stops you. He starts running his fingers through your hair, moving his thumbs over your scalp in soothing motions, though you know it's soothing him more than you. This is serious freak-out territory. 

"You're pretty messed up about this," you say. 

"And the award for biggest understatement of the year goes to Dirk Junior."

"I'd like to thank my friends, my co-workers, my incestuously inclined clone and my all-powerful Gog for getting me this far."

"You're not helping."

"Was I meant to be helping?"

"I don't know man. You tell me?"

You stand up and push him down into the chair. His hair's still wet from the shower so you set about towel-drying and then brushing it. It's soft under your fingers and you can watch him relaxing. 

"You've wanted this a long time too," you tell him. 

"Yeah."

"You want to stop?"

"No."

"The odds of us ending up with the most awkward breakup award are also high," you tell him. He smirks.

"I'd also like to thank myself for this award," he says. He puts on the watery eyes and the far-away smile of any nominee. 

"For always standing behind me," you say.

"Really close behind."

"Balls deep."

You finish with his hair and push his baseball cap down over it. You're starting to like the cap and it's equally as creepy as it is reassuring. 

"Let's just fucking get out of here," he says. 

"I'm down with that. I am really hungry."

"How can you be hungry with a hangover? No, don't tell me, I remember. You are gonna eat yourself out of a college fund."

"They were your genes first. You fix it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for lateness. Final year is a bitch. Expect updates whenever I am not actively going insane.


	11. 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Karkat saves the day. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took so long. I was writing a dissertation and moving back in with my parents. But that's done now though. Thank you to all the people who gave kudos or comments, you guys were the kick I needed to get back into this and I know where it's going now.

"What do you wanna eat?" he asks. 

"I dunno. They still doing breakfast in McDonalds?"

"Probably."

"I want that. And a lot of coffee. And a donut."

"We can do that. I could use the coffee. My mouth tastes like ass," he says. He pulls a face. Normally you'd make innuendo of that but maybe it's too soon?

"How much ass?" you say instead.

"Like a whole pack of asses," he says. 

"All the worst parts of a horse and all the worst parts of a donkey."

"That, junior, is the exact taste, scent, and consistency of my face chute."

"Good to know." You pause. "I'll stay up-wind," you tell him. 

You should have gone for the innuendo. You're better at it. You stare at your watch. It's 10:30. Everything aches. You yawn long and loud. Bro copies you. You catch your reflection in a storefront window. The shades cover the worst of it but you still look hung-over as fuck. 

You rub your eyes under your shades. It's soothing. You glance over at him. His hands are deep in his pockets. That's about it, as far as physical signs go, and it's pretty non-specific. He could be over-tired, he could be contemplating throwing himself under the front of the next truck that comes along. You wouldn't know. 

"Everything is green," you say as you pass another curb lawn.

"Amen to that. It's fucking crazy."

"It hurts just looking at it."

"I feel you brother," he says. 

"You feel a lot of things," you say. And the two of you open your mouths at the same time to make the joke before thinking better of it. 

"They'd better have donuts," you tell him. You find McDonalds. They are still doing breakfast, thank fuck for weekends, so you get an egg McMuffin and two glazed donuts and the biggest mug of coffee available. Bro gets a cookie and two large coffees and the two of you sit on a bench outside and masticate for a while. 

You think intently about his dick. You don't mean to, but you end up there somehow and you'd be hard pressed to think of anything else with that on your mind. It looked like yours: same curve to the left, same pattern of veins. Only more so - more real than looking down at it in the shower, or seeing it in a mirror. You're pretty sure you got enough of a look at his cock to jack off to for the rest of your life, but you're craving it now. 

His skin tasted like your skin, his spunk tasted like yours and also vaguely of beer. You eat your first donut instead. It’s not a good enough donut to compete. You make sure to look right at him when you’re licking the last of the glaze off your fingers. 

His expressions don’t change much, but you can see the tiny twitch of his lips. You feel good. You eat your McMuffin and try not to get egg on the seats. It’s nothing like Texas here, it’s too wet. The heat is cooking the asphalt. The coffee is almost unbearably hot but it seems to make the outside less hot by comparison; it’s not like you couldn’t handle it anyway. You keep the second donut as a back-up because Gamzee and Karkat seem like the type to have either a lot of food or none at all. 

“Hey,” Bro says when he calls them. His voice is practically slurred and you think he must be crashing pretty bad.

“I suppose you douche-nuggets will be wanting me to come collect your asses?”

“We’d appreciate it.”

“Where are you?”

“Uhhh…” Bro turns to you. “Where are we?” he asks you. He holds the phone away from his ear when Karkat starts screaming down it about calling him when you don’t even know where you fucking are.

You get up and glance down the street. “North Magnolia drive,” you say, spotting the sign. 

“McDonalds on Magnolia Drive,” Bro tells Karkat. 

There’s more inarticulate yelling and then Karkat must hang up because Bro puts the phone back into his pocket with a smile. 

It takes Karkat a good half hour to come get you and in that time you’ve finished your coffee.

“Afternoon, nookwranglers.” Karkat has stopped in the middle of the street and several car horns blare angrily. Bro winces at the loud noise. One day you are going to wuss out and get hangovers like that. You aren’t looking forward to it. 

You all pile into the car and Karkat growls affectionately at you when you give him your spare donut. Karkat is such a cautious driver that he comes all the way round to being dangerous again – slamming on the breaks at the slightest sign of danger and driving so slowly that other cars keep trying to go around him. 

You spend the entire journey with clenched teeth and by the time you get out your face aches. You catch Bro rubbing at his jaw and the two of you share a look that translates to never again. 

Gamzee is sleeping on a pile of books when you arrive. His spine is curved unnaturally far backwards. He’s making this weird noise like a cross between a cough and a growl, you assume it’s the troll equivalent of snoring. 

You settle down onto the pile of cushions you’d been eyeing last time you came over. Bro sprawls beside you, his legs spread wide enough that your knees are touching. You are hit with a low grade level of arousal, not enough to make you hard but enough to make you think all over again about how his cum tasted and how his breath tickled your ear when he stroked you off. 

You have just enough experience to deal with that and still hold a conversation. But it still kind of makes you spacey - in a way you’re hoping is masked by the hangover. You all sit around – talking as quietly as possible so as not to wake Gamzee. 

Karkat and Bro get a server set up and then Karkat joins Gamzee on the incredibly uncomfortable pile of crap and goes to sleep. You and Bro spend the day sitting around gaming and drinking orange Faygo. Karkat and Gamzee have two shelves in their fridge. One is given over entirely to Faygo cans and the other to raw hamburger meat in various containers. 

You get pretty tired later in the afternoon and go for a nap on the cushion pile while Bro continues to complain quietly to you that the graphics aren’t making up for the lousy gray aesthetic and that this level is completely impossible without some kind of glitch. You doze off when he’s still flicking through the manual and when you wake up he’s passed out next to you and everything smells of meat. 

You get up and head for the kitchen. Gamzee is cooking and Karkat is making piles of hamburger buns and filling them with onions and ketchup. Gamzee’s face paint is smudged and he’s wearing a bath robe and slippers. You yawn and he stares at you for a minute. 

“Why’s a brother flashing his face bones all of a sudden?” Gamzee asks. Karkat looks at you – even more tense than usual. 

“I’m still kind of tired,” you tell Gamzee. 

“Is that what it’s all about?”

“Yeah, though nobody quite knows why humans do it,” you say. 

“Flashing all those flat white slabs ain’t no kind of threat?”

“No!” you say, maybe too quickly because Karkat flinches. 

Gamzee hasn’t put down the spatula. You take a step backwards and then he’s all up in your personal space. Karkat is trying to get between you and he keeps trying to get his hands on Gamzee’s face but there’s just no room. Gamzee is making this chittering, grating, rumbling sort of sound that seems to be vibrating through your skull and town your spine. 

“Karkat,” you most definitely do not squeak, “little help would be great.”

“Fuck this is… okay. Uh… is your hand free?”

“I guess?”

“Get your hands on his face parts and tap at them.”

“What?”  
“Fucking do it.”

“Jesus, okay, okay.”

You put your fingers to his boney cheeks and tap awkwardly at them. (You are not thinking about how close his teeth are to your veins. You aren’t thinking about the fact your bones feel like they’re being held against a clothes dryer.) You are, of course, the picture of coolness as you slap his face as politely as possible. 

“Shoosh,” Karkat says. 

“I’m not saying anything,” you say. 

“Shut up and pap his face. Make sure you get his nose.”

You do as Karkat says and Karkat continues to make soothing noises in accompaniment to your awkward taps to Ganzee’s general face area. 

Gradually Gamzee calms down and your bones stop rattling and Gamzee’s whole body seems to go limp. Gamzee makes to step away from you but then he’s thrown back and Bro is there, holding a shitty sword to Gamzee’s throat. But Gamzee is oblivious, blissed out on whatever you and Karkat were doing to him. 

“It’s fine,” Karkat says, “he was gonna let him go.”

“He was gonna hurt him! He was gonna, he would-“

“He wouldn’t,” you say, “we had it under control.”

“He can’t hurt anyone right now,” Karkat says, “He can’t do fucking anything except stand there like a douche.”

“Bro,” you say, “He won’t hurt me. He’s holding a spatula for fuck’s sake. Karkat was here. He knew what to do.”

“He might have hurt you!” Bro says. His hands grip the shitty sword so tight it shatters. 

Everything is chaos then – as Karkat grabs Gamzee and gets between the blissed out juggalo and your fucked up clone. You manage to get up in Bro’s face, both hands on his shoulders.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing you dumb piece of shit?” you try and yell it but your voice is shaking. “You could have hurt him!”

“He was gonna – he might have-” Bro is trying to say but you cut him off.

“You really think Karkat would have let his monorail go psycho on my ass?”

“I-”

“No. Gamzee is his responsibility. We got him to calm down. Just look at the guy, would you?”

When your Bro eventually gets a good look at Gamzee his face goes white immediately. You turn, expecting to see something bad, but instead it’s just Gamzee standing there with a blissed-out look on his face. Karkat is continuing to make soothing shooshing noises and stroke Gamzee’s face. 

“I’m sorry,” Bro says. And you realize the expression on his face was guilt. Now you know what you must look like when you’re guilty, and it explains how he always seemed to know when you’d done something wrong. You turn back to your clone and kiss him quick and hard on the mouth. 

“You dumb piece of shit,” you tell him. “You stupid fucking asshole.” And you kiss him again. 

“Hey,” Karkat says. “Your boyfriend is fucked up.”

“So’s yours,” you say.

Karkat nods. “Fuck!” he says,

“What.”

“Fucking hamburgers!”

The next few minutes are devoted to a failed attempt at rescuing burned meat patties and forcing them to be edible through the liberal application of ketchup.


End file.
